


Blood! Drench Me in the Blood of Your Enemies!               ~or~               Bond’s Gotta Get that Bloodthirstiness from Somewhere

by Dart



Series: Sentient Skyfall [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Gen, MI6 Cafe Challenge, MI6 Cafe Occult October Challenge, Magic, Sentient Skyfall, Skyfall Lodge - Freeform, sp00qy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-28 00:43:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21127991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dart/pseuds/Dart
Summary: A Sentient Skyfall backstory Sp00qy fic.





	Blood! Drench Me in the Blood of Your Enemies!               ~or~               Bond’s Gotta Get that Bloodthirstiness from Somewhere

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Zephyrfox for betaing! 
> 
> Any remaining mistakes or weirdness can be laid at my feet.

While this Kincade, the most recent in a long line of gamekeepers, would tell you that young James Bond locked himself in the priest hole upon learning that his parents, Andrew and Monique Delacroix Bond, had perished in a mountain climbing accident in the Aiguilles Rouges near Chamonix, that isn’t quite true.

Yes, James had released the secret mechanism and gone down into the dirt and the dark and the damp to hide (his emotions, his tears, the overwhelming _ terrorgrief _ clawing its way out), but it was the house that locked him in. Skyfall Lodge, having felt the death of its master and mistress, secured the little master in a safe place, as it had always done. How was it supposed to know anything of distance? Of long miles over sea and icy slope? Of less warlike ways to die a young death?

In previous generations, when under attack, they sent the children, the mistresses less inclined to wield a sword, the infirm and the weak, and the ones frail with age, down to the Below, until the attack was pulverized and Skyfall drank its fill from the blood-soaked ground. How was it supposed to know that when it felt the death of this master and mistress they were so far away and the attackers were not at Skyfall? No, when it felt the death of its master and mistress, it called to Little Master. And when it felt little James Bond, little master, cross the threshold into the Hiding Place in the Below, it locked him in, locking the world out.

No, young James Bond _ had _ to—it matters not what thoughts NowJames might put in his own young head at this time and distance—heed Skyfall’s beckoning. _ Hide Yourself Away. _

James had been compelled to hide, but he _ wanted _ a place—to escape—to let the fury course through—throat-grating screams, snotty tears, and bile—away from words, Kincade’s meaty hand, the weight on his shoulder.

A place for this _ ragegrief_—to run through him [grind (something) of him away].

It felt like it would consume him,  
but it was a catalyst, it had not burned him to ash, but it had burned something away, he was changed.

James had not intended to stay down below that long. He thought perhaps the door was stuck, but ultimately he didn't care. And when the rush and weight of all consuming grief ground him down, and he finally slept, he dreamt.

Though Skyfall was limited—it communicated as best it could, in dreams.

Feverish dreams of strange battles fought and won by the earliest generations of Bonds, of _ Before. _ Slippery whispers, resistant to conscious memory of what Skyfall might unlock, unstick once the conditions were met. By the time young James woke, though he couldn’t quite remember what Skyfall had once been, he knew his duty, to himself, to his line, and to the land. This time he didn’t creep, but strode to the secret door. He barely paused before giving a great shove, with a knowing that was buzzing at his core, knowing that it would no longer be 'stuck'. Not to him.

And Skyfall sent young James Bond out into the light, into the world, that he might better spill the blood of his enemies, protect what was his—(t)his line, (t)his land. Knowing that one day its enemies would again be pulverized, that it would once more sing in triumph, freshly bathed in their blood, Skyfall settled back down into the long wait to regain what it had lost.

Kincade thought James emerged a man, but James Bond had emerged the _ Laird._

So that one far off day when that boy with the green eyes and messy night-dark hair crossed its threshold, soon after its stones and earth had been freshly watered in enemies’ blood, and stood stock-still and asked, “Is…your house _humming_?!”

James Bond, no longer Little Master, but _ Master_, the Laird, gave a bloodthirsty grin and said, “Quite.”


End file.
